


The "Bleeding Armadillo" Incident

by Vespera_Z



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Birthday Party, Fluff, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Prank-fest, References to Steel Magnolias
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-21 22:10:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11366655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vespera_Z/pseuds/Vespera_Z
Summary: It is Jazz's creation date! After coming across some intriguing information about a particular, analogous human birthday, Prowl is determined to successfully put together a surprise party for his bondmate. However, not everything goes exactly as planned. Poor Prowl.





	1. The Incident

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! This is the first story that I have written (read: have actually completed) and published, and I honestly do not know how to feel about this being the first. Seriously, of all the ideas I have and have had over the past few years, my horrible attempt at a humorous take on something already quite hilarious is it. Go figure.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

“SURPRISE!!!”

Looking to his left at his startled companion, Prowl smiled slightly at the blinding smile and utter joy that radiated from Jazz as the lights in the recreation room, previously dimmed, suddenly flared to life to reveal his personal, weeks-long project. It had been the work of many mechs and some clever finagling of the duty schedule in order for this to be pulled off, but seeing his bondmate’s surprise and delight as he turned to beam at him and toss his arms around him in an ecstatic hug made it well worth the effort.

He and Jazz had just returned from a pleasant drive that he had manipulated by suggesting scenic routes, stopping to enjoy some beautiful sights, and prolonging their uninterrupted quiet time together so as to give the rest of the off-duty _Ark_ crew sufficient time to set up the room for the occasion. With a quick comm. to the waiting mechs, he and Jazz detoured by the communal washracks before heading to the rec. room to supposedly just grab a quick cube of energon before returning to their quarters. With how busy the _Ark_ and its crew had been over the previous few weeks due to heightened Decepticon activity and human politics, Prowl knew that Jazz was not expecting more than a few well wishes and perhaps a small, relaxed gathering in the evening for his creation date. Cybertronians only held major celebrations for significant creation dates due to their longevity. Even then, many of such celebrations were postponed or simply overlooked because of their perpetual war. This one, however, was not going to be overlooked, Prowl had decided.

As the two of them were swarmed by the present mechs once they fully entered the room, each wishing Jazz a happy creation day and exclaiming their indignation over his audacity at trying to pass this one under the radar, Prowl passed his scrupulous gaze around the room in inspection. He was pleased to see the decorations and color palette were exactly as he had specified. The room was festive and filled with human “traditional” items that Jazz’s inner sparkling adored like streamers, balloons, and those weird, shiny-metallic weights that looked an erupting volcano, all doused with a touch of Cybertronian elegance in warm lighting rather than the typically harsh lighting of the room. Everything was in one of three colors: gold, white, or ebony. Prowl felt a swell of mirth that he kept from his face, though the slight cant of Jazz’s helm as he turned to him with a curious yet beaming look once the initial rush of greeting was finished and the others had returned to their drinks, conversation, or (for a few) dancing indicated that it had slipped through their bond.

“You planned this, didn't you?” Jazz asked, gesturing to the room with a servo. Prowl simply inclined his helm in acknowledgement, small smile gracing his lips, and then he found himself once again ecstatically embraced by the slightly shorter Polyhexian. Leaning back, Jazz’s expression slid into something Prowl would categorize as “playfully admonishing” as it was obvious the mech was fighting to prevent the impending, face-splitting grin at this surprise.

"This why you've been all secretive and oblique lately, ‘working’ even more pass reasonable than usual? ‘Cause I know you haven't had _that_ much more work lately,” Jazz asked with a light poke to Prowl’s nose, making the tactician jerk back a little in evasion.

“Maybe,” Prowl replied outwardly cryptic, but his happiness and satisfaction at his success in actually surprising his mate – a feat made exceedingly difficult, virtually impossible if he were not the expert tactician he was, by the fact that Jazz was such a skilled saboteur and Special Ops. leader – flowed across the bond between them. It was somewhat subdued at the unspoken knowledge between them of just how little time they had been able to spend together as of late. For the past few weeks, the only time they could manage was a few breems over energon and recharge, though for the latter it was more proximity than quality time as one was usually already in recharge or gone for the orn when the other was awake.

“I am sorry that I have been so negligent in spending time with you these past few weeks, Jazz,” he continued quietly, aware of the others in the room noting the saboteur’s suddenly subdued mood at that thought.

“It ain't your fault, love. It rarely is,” Jazz replied equally quietly, gently brushing a servo over a defined cheek arch as he sent acceptance and reassurance across their bond. His azure visor dimmed slightly for a brief moment as they both reveled in the quiet moment only to flash back to its normal, vivacious glow as he stepped back with a broad grin. “Besides, if this is how you’ll make it up, I sure ain’t complaining! Though I have to ask: I get the gold and white, classic, signifying achievement and prosperity as well as lots of other positive stuff...and reminiscent of a certain winged wonder I know. Why black, though? Nothing against it, heck, we both wear it! But, seems kinda damning and gloomy to me for a party.”

“Why, Jazz, I thought you, as our resident expert on indigenous and varying cultures, knew about this particular tradition the humans have,” Prowl stated with a hint of feigned shock. Neatly clasping his servos behind him in the same way he did when he had welcomed new recruits back in Iacon or when he presented the facts to a group after much detailed and exacting research or planning, he continued, absently noting that he had now garnered the attention of most of the room’s curiosity.

"As you know, we Cybertronians only celebrate certain creation dates due to our comparatively, and typically, long lifespan. Although there are some regional discrepancies and extenuating circumstances that can also factor in practice, those particular occasions are mostly standard. However, humans celebrate the occasion of their birth every time the Earth completes a full orbital rotation from the date on which they were born. That is, the day on which they were physically separated.

“While I was researching some of the ways humans celebrate such an occasion,” he paused briefly at the numerous and unsuccessfully stifled snickers he received at that, ignored it, and continued. “As I was saying, I came across some information regarding the significance of the achievement of a specific age that intrigued me. Out of curiosity, I calculated what your equivalent age, adjusting so that certain physical developments, relative maturity, and some ‘rites of passage’ common across both our species, would be according to humans. They coincided. The age I am referring to is fifty, and while our general limits in ‘human equivalent years,’ for lack of a better term, astronomically exceed that of the average limit for the most developed countries, I found the sentiment and some of its more light-hearted idioms fitting.

“Thus, I was, as you would say, ‘inspired’ to plan and execute a surprise party that blended both traditions that have contributed to our local culture and lives here on Earth. Gold is synonymous with the occasion as, according to humans, the date marks when an individual has reached the ‘golden age.’ Beyond complimenting gold, black, to my understanding, is merely a dose of customary humor,” Prowl finished, watching Jazz’s over-bright visor as the mech assimilated his words and, based on the slightly gaping expression and furrowed brow, most likely conducted his own cursory search. Figurative optics twirled as the other ‘bots in the room parsed what they could from the impromptu lecture.

The silence except for the music playing at a thankfully moderate – for the Ark – volume lingered like the cloying morning fog of the Appalachians until Jazz abruptly straightened, visor flaring in indignation and, assuredly exaggerated if what he felt across the bond was accurate, outrage.

"Are you calling me _old_!?" Jazz shrieked.

All helms swiveled, eagerly awaiting Prowl’s hopefully fantastic response.

“I prefer seasoned or well-aged,” Prowl delivered deadpan, though the effect was ruined by his microscopic yet contextually obvious smirk. The rest of the room burst into laughter at Jazz’s expression, completely on board with this twist on the evening and immediately engaging full throttle with the comment.

Due to Jazz’s extravagant amount of energy, his preferred lifestyle, his at times immaturity, and his just plain “cool” and accessible attributes, most tended to forget that Jazz was notably older than most of the rest of the non-Command mechs and femmes. In fact, the only instances in which his age and experience truly shown was during missions and battles when he commanded, during long nights and difficult, spark-felt conversations on tough orns when open audials and words of wisdom are needed, and any sort of historical or obscure, cultural reference where “you had to be there” to fully comprehend it. It was definitely a testament to his skill, quality, and resolve that he was still with them and thriving.

“Like fine high-grade,” Jazz muttered sarcastically as his trademark mirth and suavity returned with each step he took toward his mate. Smacking Prowl’s shoulder, the saboteur retorted, “I am not that much older than you, Sparkles,” leading into their long-standing, light-hearted banter on the topic as Prowl escorted Jazz toward the tables lining the back wall that were filled with tastefully arranged and approved high-grade, solid delicacies that had been deemed h’orderves, and something else enclosed in a tall white box on the rightmost end. Judging by the size, his directions, and the one missing detail, Prowl discerned that it should be the cake. Why was it still in a box, though?

The chaos and ruckus reigned throughout the room as the two predominantly black and white mechs weaved their way through filled tables in order to reach the mouthwatering display of elegant energon confections, most of which where Jazz’s favorites, and high-grade. They stopped a number of times for Jazz to chat along the way. After reaching the spread and collecting a small high-grade and a few of the solid treats, they made their way to and sat at the open table that had clearly been held for them. For the next few breems, Jazz enjoyed and Prowl accompanied a rotation of laughter and conversation as the _Ark_ ‘bots swung by their table.

Once every individual attending had the chance to visit Jazz, some much longer than others based on personality and the rotation of abbreviated shifts Prowl had set up so that everyone who desired to come could, the Twins stood before the monstrous white box and urged everyone to quiet down. Prowl’s icy optics narrowed into a suspicious glare, only slightly alleviated as Hound and Bumblebee joined them, Wheeljack sitting close by. This was not part of his plan.

"Good evening, everyone!" Sideswipe boisterously began. "Jazz-man, happy creation day! And I promise, I won’t tell everyone when you have to move the targets on the range closer because you can't see as well in your old age, and I’ll be sure you always have an escort when you cross the main hall, and--”

The rest of the red mech’s myriad of “old people” stereotypes was drowned out by uproarious laughter, including Jazz’s own in addition to his shouted “As if!” retort. Prowl just shook his helm, glancing fondly at his adjacent mate. He was still waiting to see what mayhem would come of this, hoping his intuition was wrong, the one-point-seven percent chance that was.

"Anyways," the red mech continued as everyone quieted down once again. “To preserve anonymity of the brilliant processor behind this, we were asked to present this certain surprise. And I have to say, it’s quite fitting! So, without further ado…”

The four mechs each pulled away a side of the massive white box, revealing its contents. Inhaling sharply, Prowl tensed with widened optics as he staved off the tell-take twinge in his processor. He wasn't sure what exactly to feel at the sight, but simmering fury and horror beneath a barely impassive façade was what showed.

While he had to deliberate over a number of details and even deferred some of those decisions to those more suited to make them, one detail that Prowl knew with one hundred percent certainty from the inception of this idea was his expectations for a cake. While the concept of a birthday cake was human in origin, it was merely a more extravagant, rarely seen extension of some of their own celebration delicacies. And, it was an extension he knew Jazz loved. Recruiting the talents of their resident scientists – Wheeljack for ingenuity and Perceptor to temper the explosion-prone inventor – as well as Sunstreaker for an artistic perspective, Prowl had commissioned the creation of tiered, elegantly decorated cake of white and gold that bordered on the cusp of museum-quality, Romantic-inspired art. Most importantly, and the possibly catastrophe-inducing aspect, it was to be Jazz’s favorite kind of celebration energon cake: blue silk, a sweet, ultra rich, and decadent blend that resulted in a shade of blue of almost the same beautiful hue as his mate’s ubiquitous visor. Luckily, the recipe that Prowl had obtained from Jazz’s creator millennia ago had survived their crash and extended stasis, so only some experimenting in synthesizing one of the ingredients that was not naturally occurring on Earth, as well as scaling the recipe, was required. Thankfully, he had not received any reports on mishaps, though he was not convinced that the suspicious, glow-in-the-dark haze that had filled the _Ark_ last week was not somehow involved. Ignorance was bliss, in that case, since it was not caustic or explosive.

What he saw now, proudly displayed before the entire Earth contingent of Autobots, was most certainly not that. It was impressive in its own right and in its realistic details, and a part of him, deep beneath his shock at the sight, was humored and awed. Where he expected to see his envisioned, elegant tiers stood an almost to-scale rendition of Jazz, jauntily, even sensually if viewed at a few choice angles, posed in a comically heroic way with his signature winning smile, though the statuesque heroism effect was humorously thwarted by the addition of a cane which cake-Jazz exaggeratedly used for support.

Hilarity ensued. Uproarious laughter, applause, the works. Prowl scanned the present and distracted crowd for any indication of the delinquents who changed this, but his search immediately fled the forefront of his thoughts at the sight of his mate, leaning against him, breathless from laughing so hard. Though he would identify those responsible if only to ease his processor’s need for closure, it could wait. Seeing and feeling the life, adoration, and exuberance of his mate was a welcome reprieve he would not waste.

"Love, did you-?” Jazz breathlessly asked with a huge grin, to which Prowl simply shook his helm. The glint of his visor, the brush against his doorwing, and the not-so subtle prod across their bond indicated he was not convinced but was not going to push it. Yet. Jazz was intimately familiar with his publicly obscure sense of humor. Taking a quick sip of his drink, the smaller mech sat back up, arm still wrapped around Prowl’s waist, and addressed the room.

“Mechs, thanks,” he said simply, uncharacteristically lost for words. “Just…thanks. I love it.”

The party picked up once again, Blaster turning up the volume much louder, a mix of mostly fast, upbeat dance or danceable music with some quieter, slower songs intermittently woven in. As requested, it was still below the normal level that irritated sensitive doorwings. Prowl watched as his mate leaped into motion while he remained at the table just off the central clearing that was now the impromptu dance floor. The smaller mech smiled radiantly as he danced, and occasionally he would sing as well in his enjoyment. Prowl had always loved to watch his mate dance, all effortless grace, beauty, and palpable excitement. He joined Jazz for each of the slow dances with minimal coaxing. Overall, the surprise party was thus far a success, a sentiment further reinforced by his brief exchanges with those who passed by him.

After a while, at Jazz’s prompting, the two headed to the back tables to grab a piece of the energon cake that someone had begun serving after their arrival. As they once again approached the long tables at the back of the room, Prowl suddenly halted with an aghast expression. Incidentally, his sudden stop jerked the still-moving and animatedly jabbering Jazz into a stumbling stop as well. An inquisitive gaze and confused expression met him.

“Prowler?” Jazz questioned with a small tug via their clasped servos to try and attract his attention. All thought fled at the startling sight before him, and he found himself speaking before he thought better of it, his normally calm and even voice flooded with bewilderment and appall.

“Primus, that’s morbid!”

The confused stares he received from his mate and those nearby made his plating crawl, his distaste for being the center of attention flaring, but his gaze was frozen ahead. Following Prowl’s line of sight, it took a brief moment before others began to realize what was affecting their typically reticent and composed SIC. Where the acclaimed and deliciously edible parody of Jazz was proudly posed earlier now stood a partially deconstructed variation, appearing as though random, and revealingly suggestive choices that ‘random’ was, chunks had been removed from their TIC. However, what was originally looked over by the others who had already claimed and begun enjoying their own pieces of the cake was that whoever had instigated the design changes either had no foreknowledge and therefore no reason to alter the type of cake used, or someone on the stranded ship hand a wickedly dark sense of humor. The cake was still the requested blue silk, and that type of energon cake, reputed for its beautiful blue color and soft texture, incidentally resembled the blue energon flowing through and supplying their frames, a sight they were all familiar with from millennia of war and its grotesque encounters with the worst atrocities of which their race was capable.

Prowl’s first coherent thought once he unfroze from the image and its connotations was what would Jazz think of such a display. His mate had gone utterly still, expression blank, lips slightly parted in a minuscule gape, and presence over their bond still and muted. No doubt this was affecting Jazz, bringing up harsh, dark, and painful memories of distant and not-so-distant experiences and ill-fated missions, both Special Ops. and not. Prowl could accept the change in design as it was thoroughly enjoyed and retrospectively quite clever, but this was too far, too potentially upsetting. Prowl glanced around with a darkening expression, doorwings subtly flicking upward and outward in a muted show of his rising stress, in frustration that his intended reprieve and distraction from their current circumstances was afflicted by yet another prank, and in a show of protectiveness of his mate. He was once again searching for the possible culprits as well as assessing the scene to formulate a potential plan of action for if he needed to quickly remove Jazz from the room, for everyone’s wellbeing.

Reaching through the bond he shared with the Polyhexian, he gently brushed against Jazz’s side in question as to whether he was alright or not. He received an overwhelming and confounding mix of emotional layers. Preparing for the worst, physically stepping closer to the still quiet Polyhexian and shifting their joined servos closer to himself, Prowl opened his mouth to speak but was halted by a quiet sound emanating from Jazz.

“Jazz?” He asked, shifting so he was facing the mech. Watching closely through concern-filled optics, tensed in preparation, Prowl saw the quickly spreading grin, felt the rising mirth, as Jazz began uncontrollably giggling. Stepping forward, praying to Primus that he was not dealing with another psychiatric crack that had been missed after one of the saboteur’s recent missions, Prowl cupped his free servo along the side of Jazz’s now broadly smiling faceplates, wary optics meeting glowing visor.

“Jazz, are you alright?” He whispered. Feeling Jazz nod under his servo, he relaxed slightly, though not completely. He didn't sound hysterical or that terrifying, humorless cold that always proceeded his most dangerous lapses, but it also would not be the first time his stubborn mate would hide something so serious.

“Why so serious, love?” Giggle. “Primus, Prowler,” Jazz was full out laughing now, “I never knew ya had it in ya!”

With that, Jazz was now doubled-over in uncontrollable, loud, honest laughter, prompting the rest of the room’s occupants to relax, join in, or whatever. Some who thought that, despite his reactions thus far, this was all really something Prowl had contrived raised their cubes in good-natured salute. Flustered for a moment, slightly affronted at the thought of being credited with something so borderline obscene, Prowl huffed his frustration then found himself being dragged along by his still laughing mate to the dismembered statue of a cake.

“This is awesome, though maybe I should be offended,” Jazz commented as he edged around his likeness, voice dropping to a whisper as he came back next to Prowl and, despite the visor, looked the wary tactician straight in the optics with a failed and significantly salacious impression of Prowl’s signature deadpan. “Art speaks, right? So, in addition to old – ah, ‘well-aged,’ as you so elegantly put it – are you quite boldly suggesting that I’m not sweet tasting enough for you?”

Prowl tried to reply, but he could not find any words. He heard numerous snickers and a few catcalls as they were overheard. He felt a distinct processor ache coming.

“Jazz- I-” He stumbled, stunned. “No! Of course not. I-”

“Prowl, relax,” Jazz smirked at him with a knowing – what did he know, he sardonically thought – look as he handed the Praxian one of the already cut and plated pieces. Prowl grudgingly accepted it as Jazz took up the utensils and moved around to the backside of the cake. “Come on, help me. It's not every orn that I have the chance to sample this fine asset of an aft that you love so much.”

“Jazz!”

“C’mon Prowl, everyone loves a nice piece of aft!”

Deliberately whacking Jazz in the helm with the closest doorwing, the shameless saboteur laughed at his mate’s reaction. With Prowl holding his plate steady, Jazz served himself a generous helping with the cheekiest grin the whole time. Settling down, they both enjoyed the special dessert, Jazz more so and quite vocally at the realization that it was his creator’s recipe as well as continuing to poke fun at his mate to great delight. As things settled out once more, the high-grade really starting to kick in for some, and everyone had visited with Jazz, the two black and white mechs were left alone together as the party continued.

“This was really nice, sweetspark,” Jazz said as he leaned against Prowl, his arm wrapped around the Praxian’s waist while Prowl’s was gently draped across his shoulder along the back of Jazz’s seat. “Way better than I would ever have hoped.”

“I am glad you enjoyed it,” Prowl replied, still simmering slightly at the cake debacle but tabling it for now in favor of reveling in his mate’s happiness. “We had the time opportunity and resources for once, and with the way things have been…well, there was no way that you were going to float this one. Besides, it significantly elevates morale when we are able to uphold traditions such as these.”

“Ever pragmatic of you,” Jazz hummed in reply, radiating joy and contentment as they enjoyed the uninterrupted opportunity to simply be together. “I have to ask, though. What possessed you to utilize a little creative interpretation on the bleeding armadillo? I didn't think you had seen that one.”

“The what?” Prowl incredulously asked after a moment of shocked silence.

“ _Steel Magnolias_ ,” Jazz replied. “The groom’s cake, with the red velvet? I got to say, this blue silk was definitely impressive. I didn't know it was possible here.”

Prowl nodded absently, distracted by his internal search for the reference. Blanching at the results, he quickly shut that down and, leaning over, pressed his palms to his face with a groan at the helm-ache. Why did humans have to be so strange and irrational, especially the country where they lived? As if the impressionable _Ark_ residents did not have enough inspiration for the absurd already.

“So…I don't here you denying this was your idea all along. Talk about a way to whip out that humor I know you hide so well!”

“Jazz,” Prowl sighed, a flicker of irritation rising then suppressed as he sat back up and gave the triumphant-looking mech a pointed look. “I told you, that was not my idea. I would be happy to show you my intended design. I believe that I have narrowed down the list of possible suspects for who changed it, but I’ll need to speak to a few mechs and check the security feed with Red Alert before I have my answer. On principle, I can almost guarantee two.”

Jazz just smiled at him, used to his mate’s tendencies and need for closure on such things.

“Retribution?”

Silence.

“Perhaps.”

Jazz just laughed. He would try to convince Prowl to do so, for the laughs.

“Does it increase morale?” Jazz asked, not at all subtly trying to manipulate the ever logical Praxian’s rationale.

Running the numbers, Prowl was actually shocked at the results. Sensing his mate's shift, Jazz peered up at him.

“It does?” Jazz incredulously asked.

“If it is not known who enacted it, no more than usual. However, were it to be merely suspected, not confirmed, mind you, that I was involved, it would increase morale by approximately seventy-six percent.”

The two merely stared at each other, Jazz beaming and Prowl returning his small smile. For the sake of morale, then. Resolved, Prowl reflected on the evening, which was long from over if Jazz’s gentle petting of his doorwing was any indication. Overall, he was satisfied, though his own surprise and implied inclusion with the cake still rankled. He shot the decimated remains of cake-Jazz another stern glare. As if sensing that thought, which would not surprise Prowl if he could by now, and following his line of sight, Jazz spoke up again.

"Cheer up, love. I know it wasn't your intention, but I love it. The party, the cake” – giggle – “and just spending time with everyone, especially you. You did good." Leaning in, Jazz placed a playful, gentle kiss on Prowl’s cheek, prompting Prowl to give Jazz his signature subtle yet meaningful smile, meeting the unabashedly suggestive look his mate was giving him. Jazz was happy, and in this moment, that was what mattered most to Prowl.

Huffing over his shoulder at the mutilated remnants of the former rendition of his bondmate, Prowl muttered with a less heated glare at the impertinence.

"It still looks like a slagging autopsy!"

Jazz just shook with laughter at his mate’s, at times, amusingly pedantic inclination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In explanation for what prompted this: My mother finally made me watch Steel Magnolias the other night because references to it kept appearing in conversation, such as how this one older lady at my church is nicknamed “Ouiser,” but I was completely clueless. I highly recommend that you watch it! I believe it is still available on Netflix. There was a lot of stuff that had me very inspired (hint), but the armadillo cake – pun intended – took the cake. I will most likely be posting an epilogue to this eventually, so keep that previous sentence in mind and let me know what you think.
> 
>  **List of Known Contributing Works** (fanfiction.net and here) **:**  
>  [_Imperium in Imperio_](https://m.fanfiction.net/s/6178593/1/) by Mirage Shinkiro ---  the “not every vorn” creation celebration concept  
>  [_Story of a Lifetime_](https://m.fanfiction.net/s/5637123/1/Story-of-a-lifetime) by Taralynden ---  the nickname “Sparkles” (story that comes to mind for this) and a larger age difference between Jazz and Prowl (kind of implied in this story, but can be read as not)  
>  [_The Diego Diaries_](https://m.fanfiction.net/s/6447627/1/The-Diego-Diaries) by Arctapus ---  the “hilarity ensued” phrase


	2. Epilogue -- Blush and Bashful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here is the epilogue! I had originally planned a second part for this. However, as it was getting long, I decided to go ahead and post the first part and wait on the second (Jazz’s Part). Comment and let me know if you would like more!
> 
>  **Note on Time Units:** There is a blend of human and Cybertronian time units used here. The mixed use of day/orn is somewhat intentional on my part, like a linguistical indication of the blending and effect of Earth on the ‘bots. My thinking on it is that the more time spent around humans, the more time is told in relation to Earth rather than Cybertron, which would have longer “days,” etc. Here are the general units I adhered to for this one.
> 
> Breem = 8.3 minutes  
>  Groon = 9 breems / 1.24 hours  
>  Orn = 20 groons / 24.9 hours, ~ 1 day  
>  Decaorn = 10 orns / ~10 days
> 
> TMT = Terran Millitary Time (24-hour clock)

**Epilogue to The “Bleeding Armadillo” Incident**

 

_Blush and Bashful_

 

Jazz happily hummed to himself as he sauntered through the halls in the direction of the rec. room. It felt wonderful to be back and to slide back into this normalcy after a lonely but necessary decaorn of surveillance and sabotage of the ‘Cons latest attempt to gain an edge on them. He had returned early last evening, perfectly on time, and was able to fully debrief and turn in his report, complete his medical evaluation, take a quick rinse in his and Prowl’s private washrack, and enjoy a cube of slightly warmed midgrade, courtesy of his mate, in the quiet of their quarters before falling into a restful recharge. His assignment had been a success and hopefully had given the Earth Autobots at least a few extra orns of a break, he was able to recharge a few extra groons due to his mandatory, compensatory time off, he was the recipient of some pretty excellent vibes from his bond with Prowl who most likely was now reviewing the intelligence he had been able to collect, and overall, he was feeling quite fantastic as he was cheerfully greeted by those he passed in the halls.

The first sign that something was amiss was the thrum of excitement, amusement, and something else indefinable – it felt similar to something his mate unintentionally transmitted across their bond when one of his strategies or new tactics worked flawlessly – ghosted across the bond. Those feelings weren't _so_ uncommon, but they, particularly the former two, were usually in a more…intimate and private context. Pulsing his curiosity, he received assurance and the urging to come to his mate. Curiosity already piqued, he comm.ed the Praxian as he continued onward, albeit faster than his previous leisurely saunter.

:: Love? What’s up? :: He asked, his curiosity and amusement filtering through.

:: Rec. room. Hurry. :: Prowl replied and closed the line, giving nothing but his own amusement away.

Brow furrowed as he strode down the second to last hall before his destination, Jazz tried to recall anything he knew of that would have his mate in such a mood. If it were only excitement, or only amusement, he might have an inkling of an idea, but all three? He just didn't have the most up-to-date information concerning the goings on of the _Ark_ as he had spent the whole Earth day following his surprise creation date party preparing for the sudden, time-sensitive mission prompted by overnight intelligence. He had departed from the _Ark_ under the cover of twilight the following day. Rectifying that lack of context at home was what he did during his post-op leave, one of the reasons he was originally going to the rec. room now.

Distracted as he was, he ungracefully stumbled to a stop after rounding the corner before he could collide with another mech, avoiding a collision by inches. Bright visor met startled optics.

“Sorry, Jazz,” Gears apologized. Then, with a smile – a smile! – as he side-stepped around the startled and now dumbfounded saboteur, he continued on his way. “It's great to see you’re back!

That was clue number two.

“Yeah, mech,” he dazedly replied, baffled. Did the _Ark_ ’s most eccentric and difficult personalities get inverted in some freak accident from another one of Wheeljack’s lab mishaps, Jazz pondered as he stared after the usually sullen and argumentative minibot. He could have sworn that he glimpsed a skip in Gears’s step and felt as though he would crash from the shock.

Just what had he missed?

Turning, he briskly strode the rest of the way to the entrance of the rec. room and paused in the wide, open doorway. Surveying the room behind his occluding visor, he noted that nothing appeared out of the ordinary whatsoever. If he had to pick something out as abnormal, it would be that the ‘bots in the room seemed markedly more cheerful than normal, like they were all in on some inside joke, as well as the presence of a lone, black and white Praxian in the far right corner of the room, half-filled ration set on the table before him and ubiquitous datapad in hand. Internally checking the official schedule as well as Prowl’s “unofficial” one, he was shocked to note that his workaholic mate was actually taking his scheduled break…of his own free will!

Hints three and four, then.

Striding into the room, responding to the few greetings he received from those he had not seen yet that morning, Jazz retrieved his own energon from the dispenser and unwaveringly moved to join Prowl, sitting opposite the mech who, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be engrossed in whatever he was reading. Through their bond and the absent flicking of the mech’s doorwings, which gracefully dipped in polite acknowledgment and welcome, Jazz was aware that Prowl was fully aware of and monitoring his surroundings.

Clearly, to Jazz, he was eagerly anticipating something.

“Mornin’, Sparkles,” Jazz greeted, casually observing his mate and their surrounds.

What was it that had Prowl in such a mood and _actually taking a fragging break_. Jazz prided himself on being adept at discerning others’ intents and feelings as well as assessing situations. Either he was slipping and needed to practice more, or there really was nothing to discern and he would simply have to wait for things to play out. Adaptable or not, he hated the latter, the not knowing.

“Good morning, Jazz,” Prowl replied. Looking up at his companion, he quirked a small smile and optics glinted in amusement. “I see now that symptoms have started to surface of your old age. What’s next? No more night shift because you can't keep out of recharge after 1900 TMT?”

“Hush, you.”

Prowl smirked at him before returning his gaze to his datapad, scrolling through whatever its contents were. Jazz just chuckled at the exchange and smiled fondly at his mate, and then he went back to watching the room. No one had left. If anything, a few more had filtered in, and to his trained optic, it looked like most were lingering. Primus dammit, why!?

He gave it all of a breem before shifting to catch the occupied Praxian’s attention once again. He could be patient during operations, where to not be was like signing one’s own death warrant, but let it never be said that he was a patient mech. Ever.

“Prowl, why are you here?” He finally asked a little louder than he intended. Cringing, he surreptitiously glanced around, but no one seemed interested. He was not sure whether to be thankful or not about that.

“Taking a break.” Prowl replied with an arched brow.

Jazz huffed at that smart retort, conveying his frustration at that answer in his exaggerated tilt of his helm and the flash of his visor. Not funny.

Silence fell over them a moment, and once Jazz realized Prowl was not going to continue without prompting, quietly growled in aggravation.

“Why did you want me here, now, instead of telling me what has you all pleased with yourself over the comm.?” It was like interviewing someone who knew everything but would deliberately only reveal what was specifically asked for, the truth but not the whole truth to paraphrase the legal idiom. That thought immediately had Jazz suspicious and intrigued, and even a little giddy if what he was thinking was what this was about.

Prowl held Jazz’s frustrated yet curious gaze for a moment and began to reply, but he drew up short. He straightened – if that were possible – and his doorwings twitched in a “listening” way. Slowly, a small smirk appeared on his face, and meeting his gaze once more, inclined his helm slightly to direct Jazz’s gaze to the entry of the room. His sensitive audials picked up increasingly louder voices and laughter. Glancing over at Prowl, he saw that the mech look decidedly smug, but not so much that it would draw attention.

Taking a quick sip of his energon, Jazz’s gaze was riveted on the entrance as the noise in the hallway just beyond sight crested and the subjects of all the ruckus furiously stormed into the rec. room. Underneath his visor, Jazz’s optics flew wide open in shock, and that sip of energon became the newest, artistic addition to the wall behind Prowl.

Standing just inside the threshold of the room, simmering in righteous fury and radiating a general aura of murder, were the barely recognizable twins. Where the usually red and gold mechs simmered now stood the two completely doused in pink, only differentiable by the slightly differing shades of pink and their distinguishing physical characteristics, helm fins or sensory horns. Across each twin’s chassis, written in the shade of pink decorating the other twin, was a different word in bold and neat yet culprit-unidentifiable strokes: “Blush” on Sideswipe and “Bashful” on Sunstreaker.

“They’re pink!” Jazz gasped.

Oh Primus, Jazz thought as he lost control and devolved into the contagious laughter following the infuriated mechs. He did do it.

“Prowl!” Sideswipe shouted once he spotted the amused Praxian. He stomped his way to their table, his brother ominously shadowing him. They stopped right beside Prowl, looming over the undaunted mech, and Sideswipe thrust a datapad into Prowl’s free servo.

“Yes?” Prowl nonchalantly asked as he set his own datapad on the table top.

“There,” Sideswipe indignantly stated. “Formally filed complaint with every slagging field complete, delivered to the SIC within two orns of the incident, to your fragging ridiculous standards. Now when are you going to deal with this!?”

Prowl casually perused the pad, deliberate in his heedlessness. Half of a breem passed without a response. A very long, very tense half breem. Was Prowl even aware of the nuclear threat one wrong twitch away from detonating with him, and by proximity Jazz, at ground zero?

“Well?” Sideswipe glared at Prowl’s stalling, Sunstreaker audibly growling and pinning a murderous glare on any offenders who dared to comment. Jazz just leaned back in his seat, masking his prepared tension, infuriating grin in place.

“It always amazes me what you can accomplish when suitably motivated,” Prowl quietly commented as he set the datapad on the table, sliding it before Jazz. Although he was curious, Jazz waited to read it. He already had a fairly good idea of what its contents were. Finally looking up and pinning the looming mechs with his unwavering, commanding gaze, Prowl spoke up louder.

“As I have already informed you both, repeatedly, there is practically no evidence. Anything that could even be construed as such can just as easily be argued as circumstantial or coincidental. I, along with our security department, had already begun investigating the matter from the time you awoke the entire ship with that over-exaggerated shriek yesterday morning, and that finding is still supported. Since this complaint reveals no knew knowledge on the situation, there is nothing that can be done unless some new and clearly indicative information is presented.”

He paused in question. Jazz watched the twins as their fury was heightened, if that was possible, but there was also some uncertainty as they appeared to communicate with each other. Most likely, they were trying to determine if there was anything that they could supply that would not incriminate them in something else. Jazz smirked at the futility of that.

“So, that's it, then? You’ll do nothing?” Sideswipe asked, outraged.

“I’m afraid so,” Prowl replied, and Jazz would have given the mech a standing ovation for keeping the amusement and satisfaction the Praxian reveled in internally and shared across their bond off of his face. Jazz would have, but he really did not want to get slugged in the face – or worse – by homicidal frontliners today, thank you very much.

“Perhaps you should follow those instructions that were so thoughtfully provided. Then, you can fix your unfortunate circumstances.” Prowl just received a heated glare and a rude gesture from both twins, causing Jazz to laugh once again. Prowl just turned back to what he was doing before, flicking his wings in a “shoo” motion, internal smugness pulsing.

The twins left, infuriated and thoroughly pranked, Sideswipe decrying the “injustice.” Watching the two eyesores that looked more like they had been doused in a pool of – what was that human product? Oh yeah – Pepto-Bismol, Jazz noted the addition by the *cough * anonymous culprit of this brilliance of identical bumper stickers.

Gaudy, hot pink letters plastered on a pristine white background, strategically placed so that they were centered on each twin’s aft when they transformed, proudly proclaimed: Pink is My Signature Color!

Jazz’s laughter renewed with even more vigor, earning him two empty cubes launched at his helm  and furiously suspicious glares by the departing twins. Dodging the projectiles with ease, the saboteur continued to laugh well after they were gone.

“Primus, I miss this place when I’m gone,” Jazz chuckled, settling once again with a proud and humored smile at Prowl. Prowl smiled slightly at that as he flicked through and added something to his datapad. After a few moments of light and comfortable silence between them as the remaining occupants of the room continued to discuss the twins’ dilemma or leave for shifts, Prowl spoke up without looking at him.

“And Jazz?” Prowl looked up and met his visored optics, ghost of a smirk present. “Their colors are blush and bashful.”

“Same thing,” Jazz flippantly dismissed.

“No. They are two distinctly different shades of pink. Blush and bashful. One is darker than the other,” Prowl insisted. Jazz gave the doorwinger a funny look, then ran a search as that line sounded familiar. Scanning the results and its links to the infamous cake incident, Jazz guffawed. So, Prowl hadn't worked nonstop while he had been gone. Good!

“I guess it's obvious, but I’m assuming you figured out the ‘who’ while I was away?” He asked, dropping the volume of his voice quiet enough to not be heard across the room but not so quiet that he drew attention to their conversation.

Prowl nodded and, rechecking something on his datapad, handed the ‘pad to Jazz as he stood up to leave for his scheduled shift.

“This was Part A. I expect something equally sufficient and ‘fitting’ for Part B considering the ample time you currently have on servo. Enjoy,” Prowl leaned over and met him in a gentle, chaste kiss. “And welcome back.”

Sappy smile in place as he watched his mate sweep from the room, Jazz redirected his focus to the datapad in hand. Where he expected to find a lengthy document or file of some sort was the following, a short, bulleted list of names underneath a single quote from the same human film that had inspired two incidents on the _Ark_ now, all written in his mate’s elegant script:

 

_“An Ounce of Pretension is Worth a Pound of Manure”_

  * _~~Sideswipe~~_
  * _~~Sunstreaker~~_
  * _Mirage_
  * _Bumblebee_
  * _Wheeljack (coerced, omit)_
  * _Perceptor (coerced, omit)_



 

Beneath the list, and most likely what Prowl had just added, was an attached still image of the fuming, Armageddon-ready Lamborghini twins covered in their respective “blush” and “bashful” paint jobs. The image was simply titled “Part A,” and his mate’s intent was clear.

Jazz recalled Prowl’s desperate apologies for the cake mishap despite his repeated assurances of no harm done that evening. He thought the cake was slagging hilarious, and he had reviewed his own captures of its irreverent glory almost daily since, but it's effect afterwards on his mate really had been cruel, albeit unintentional. It had been a sight too reminiscent of the more severe damage that Jazz had been the recipient of quite recently. Nothing too close of a call, but enough to be critical and stuck in the medbay for more than the typical Earth day or two. The effect of the reminder at the party may have been unintentional, but it should not have been unanticipated. He loved a good prank, but when somebot got hurt, intentional or not, and especially Prowl, then the game changed.

Jazz smirked at the two names he had been tasked, processor already viciously cycling through a myriad of possibilities. Welcome back, indeed.

“At this hour lies at my mercy all mine enemies,” he smirked mischievously then set to work reviewing the twins filed complaint Prowl had left for him. He would make sure Prowl got the last laugh.

It would also be another decaorn and two skirmishes with the ‘Cons before the twins would complete whatever demands Prowl had anonymously left and the specialized removal materials would mysteriously appear in their quarters. The blackmail accumulated would be legendary.

Morale, as predicted, had indeed increased significantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Independence Day to any readers in the US! Also, remember to comment if you would like to see more.


	3. Epilogue Continued

**Continuation of the Epilogue to The “Bleeding Armadillo” Incident**

 

_An Ounce of Pretension is Worth a Pound of Manure_

 

Jazz heard the ongoing commotion from two halls away. Curiously stepping into the rec. room while on his way to the Command Center for his mid-morning shift, he quickly identified the source at the center of the off-duty mechs: a sulky Mirage and a slightly uncomfortable, yet otherwise normal, Bumblebee. The two had been dispatched to New York City a week ago to investigate some aberrant signaling Teletraan I had detected that resembled non-human, encrypted communications, and they had returned late last night. Frustratingly, the signal had just been the unfortunate product of online shopping and human teens with too much time on their hands while on break. After the long, cross-country drive and acquiring the device – to be investigated later on where the frag it had been found – Bumblebee and Mirage had requested a lift back to the _Ark_ early.

Jazz’s question now: why the attitude? Most mechs, even Mirage, were typically in a much improved mood after a non-combat venture off base for a few orns. He had been sent a brief databurst detailing the result of their investigation as well as the request to return early, which he had approved. He intended to review their written reports during his shift today to break up the monotony of the insufferable torment of monitor duty. Perhaps that would reveal something, but wouldn't they report whatever was significant enough to affect them in such a way sooner? He may be their commander as Director of Special Ops. and Third in Command, but he was their friend too.

Approaching where they sat with an easy smile, he greeted the gathering before addressing his two operatives.

“Bee. ‘Raj,” both acknowledged him with a nod, Bumblebee with a bright – though not as much as usual – smile while Mirage did not meet his gaze. Now that he was up close, he noticed a plethora of odd, hardened splatters on both mech’s plating of dingy brown, sickening grey, and a nauseating cream-white. Mirage definitely had more. Some splotches appeared to have been streaked across the metal, most likely the result of the unfortunate mech attempting to swipe whatever it was away. It looked like… but no. These two weren't stupid enough to stop in one of those areas.

“What the frag happened to you two?” Jazz incredulously asked. “And why haven't you gotten rid of whatever that is yet?”

Both mechs looked chagrined at his question, Mirage more so. Glancing at the green scout seated next to Mirage, notably not brushing against the former noble, Jazz noted Hound’s amused expression. That would be entirely different if this was at all harmful, so Jazz was put at ease and now instinctively curious.

Neither replied.

“Well?” He prompted, cautiously reaching out and brushing, then gently scratching, a black finger on a particularly sizable splatter on Bumblebee’s shoulder.

“Jazz, I wouldn't --” Bumblebee tried to warn, shifting away from Jazz’s outstretched arm.

“Never. Again,” Mirage witheringly muttered, unamused blue optics pinning Jazz. Jazz gave him a confused look, hesitant, but less so as Hound tried with little success to stifle an oncoming chortle. “Those flying beasts from the Pit are the epitome of a terror, demonic and diabolical, and I _will not_ put up with them.”

Hound lost his battle while Jazz just stared on in confusion.

“Come on, Mirage, it's not that bad!” The green scout tried to assuage.

“It is if you’ve been covered in the processed filth of the flying Pit-spawn for the past three orns,” Mirage glared at the unrepentant mech. It wasn't as heated as it would be for anyone else, but it was still scathing. Redirecting his scalding glare to Jazz, he continued, “I will not tolerate it. It's unnecessarily demeaning, entirely unsanitary, uncouth, and just disgusting.”

Laughter flowed at the appalled mech’s expense, including even Bumblebee. Jazz stared in bewilderment at his subordinate’s outburst. Once again, he was somehow late to the party on whatever the joke was beyond Mirage’s desire for higher standards. Kicking his processor in gear, he set about piecing together what he could from the tirade. They had been in NYC…well, that narrowed it down to everything under the sun. His earlier supposition, though, was included.

Replaying the comments as those around him continued to rib the blue and white spy, the realization dawned on him. Flying terrors and, how did ‘Raj so eloquently put it? Processed filth?

“Pigeons!?” Jazz exclaimed, horrified and amused. The mysterious, organic splatters and their placement, randomly dropped from above…

Both mechs nodded, Bumblebee now brightly smiling and Mirage glaring. The blossoming guffaw was suddenly halted as only one thing suddenly struck him.

“Ugh, _gross_!!!” Jazz shrieked, shaking the offending servo with which he had used to touch.

“I told you not to,” Bumblebee retorted meekly. Jazz repeatedly wiped the offending servo against the yellow minibot’s helm for the impertinence.

“Primus, that's disgusting.”

Laughter reigned once again, and after a moment Jazz couldn't resist. He could just imagine the glorious scene and indignant squawk of Mirage getting pelted by a passing pigeon, in triplicate.

Once the room settled, normalcy minus the presence of two pigeon-poop-smeared mechs, Jazz just grinned at the two. He actually looked forward to reading those reports.

“So, why are you still sitting hear rather than flocking to the washracks to scrub away even the ghosts of the marks of the birdies from the Pit?” Jazz asked about the one aspect of the scene that still baffled him. Mirage did have a point. Who in their right processor would willingly prolong their stint coated in bird feces?

“Twins,” both ops. mechs replied irritatedly.

Right. The helions were receiving the materials to restore themselves to their red and gold preferred appearances, and the two had staked their claim on the general washracks for Primus knew how long. No more would “blush” and “bashful” be stalking the halls, obediently complying to every instruction Prowl give them – directly and indirectly via the “demands” note – and otherwise being the current comedy relief of all Earth bound Cybertronians at the irony of the twins actually being so thoroughly pranked. Besides himself, and perhaps Red Alert and Ironhide, no one had figured out who had finally done it.

“We’ve tried to get in three times already this morning,” Bumblebee added. “The last time we checked they were about three-quarters of the way finished getting that pink off. So, yeah…”

Jazz watched them impassively for a moment. This was still funny as all get-out, but he had some sympathy today. He would sic Prowl on the twins to get them to hurry up or move the operation to their quarters. Jazz told the blue and yellow mechs so, comming Prowl at the same time, and they both eagerly rushed from the room.

“Please figure out a way to get Mirage to Paris,” Hound commented as he stood as well. He had patrol in a few breems. “He's wanted to go for awhile, and I here they are even worse there.”

Jazz smirked, returning a mischievous look to the green mech’s equally mirthful expression as he left.

Watching the two excrement dotted mechs ahead escape to cleanliness, he was struck by inspiration. Or re-inspiration, as it were. He still had to uphold his part of the retribution pranking, but had been unable to do so yet as his targets had been off base. Now, though, he had an idea and the time…

Opening his side of the bond more, he pulsed his idea across to his patiently unobtrusive yet interested mate. After a moment, he felt satisfaction and excitement return. Approval. That settled it.

Jazz left the room to continue onward for his shift. He smiled slyly to himself as he stepped into the Command Center. After initially checking the monitors, he leaned back comfortably in his seat and pulled out a blank datapad. Monitor duty just got a whole lot more interesting.

:: Jazz to Wheeljack ::

:: Wheeljack here. What can I do for you, Jazz?” :: 

:: Hey, ‘Jack. I’ve got a bit of a request for you… ::

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Two Orns Later… 

“And that's a wrap, my mechs! Excellent job,” Jazz brightly stated, clapping his servos together.

His division had been well overdue for some training exercises and assessments, so he had taken the current opportunity to do so. While they were obviously capable and doing quite well, there were standards to be upheld. It would also figuratively get Prowl off of his back about completing, formalizing, and filing the skills assessments Jazz had, with good reason, put off for so long.

They were currently in a wooded area not far from the _Ark_ , beyond the protected forest conservation regions and away from humans so as to avoid any incidents. Thanks to an unlikely collaboration between Wheeljack and Trailbreaker, and at their insistence, Jazz was also using the opportunity to field test a potentially game changing innovation: a portable, concealable device that could generate localized force fields of varying sizes for containment, protection, and concealment. Jazz had acquired a few of the prototypes in order to section off the woods for different challenges or tasks, some to practice specific skills and others for objective-based evaluation scenarios. These sections were arrayed around a central clearing, which served as his staging and reconvening area.

Considering the limited resources he had to work with, Jazz was impressed with what he had been able to construct…in the humblest way he could think that.

Mirage and Bumblebee emerged from their latest section, a little grimy from maneuvering through and masking themselves in the underbrush, and approached him from the opposite side of the clearing. Both looked pleased at Jazz’s praise, albeit slightly tired. As they should be, Jazz thought. All three of them had been hard at it since dawn yesterday. It was now late afternoon, sunny and warm.

“That has to be a new record we set for that sim!” Bumblebee animatedly exclaimed once they were closer. Their voices all seemed magnified in the tranquil quiet they were disturbing. Jazz grinned wryly at that with a small laugh.

“Would’ve been if I hadn't set a new one earlier,” Jazz replied to exaggerated indignation.

“I still say you cheat and manipulate your score and time,” Mirage stated with a tweak of Jazz’s closest sensory horn, eliciting an annoyed click and smacking wave from the smaller Polyhexian, all lightened by an amused, coy smile.

“Can't prove it,” Jazz retorted.

“A nonpartisan party to record and enter things. That’ll do it. I nominate Prowl!” Bumblebee added.

“Seconded,” Mirage quipped.

“Overruled!” Jazz laughed. “Geez, have a little faith.”

“Sorry, Jazz. We know what your day job is,” Mirage retorted with a conceited grin.

He just laughed and ruefully shook his helm as he gestured for the two to follow him, leading them to the last unexplored section composed of denser-clustered woods. He saved the best for last.

“Alright, you two. This is the last one,” Jazz began seriously. “The objective is simple: locate and retrieve the field generator in there. I got to return it and the rest to ‘Jack, so no damaging it. What's the challenge? There are two spots marked in red directly ahead about fifty meters that you can't see yet. Once you each reach those spots, you will be able to open the file I am about to transmit to you, which will explain the rest. Any questions?”

Both looked mildly suspicious, as though they had a question about the odd instructions but knew they would not get anywhere inquiring about it. However, neither asked. Good. He sent the sealed file through a close-range comm. link, ensuring both received it, before nodding.

“Well, good luck!” Jazz cheerfully finished before moving on as though he were going to finish decommissioning and clearing one of the other sections while he waited. He felt his subordinates gaze on him for a brief moment before he sensed them turning and walking straight into the densely wooded area without a backward glance. Once he was sure they were undoubtedly on their way, Jazz sent a comm. link request to his mate, which was readily received.

:: Prowl here. Jazz? :: Prowl acknowledged.

:: Just sent them on their merry way, Prowler. Still in your office? :: Jazz asked.

:: Yes, and my scheduled meeting with Prime was pushed to tomorrow morning. ::

Jazz could hear the intrigue and beginning excitement in the subtle shift in the stoic tactician’s tone. The impression also coincided with the much more open feelings that crossed their bond, dimmed slightly due to distance.

:: Well, then. You might want to call up Sky Spy’s feed and adjust to my coordinates with that modification I showed you, and up the resolution. They should be reaching the point where they’ll get a clue. ::

:: Already done. I’ll patch you in. :: Prowl replied, and Jazz received the uplink invitation moments later. Lounging against a small stack of crates he would have to request be picked up later, Jazz opened the link.

The feed displayed an angled view of the yellow minibot and blue spy standing still on discernible, red patches, visible through the dense canopy due to a clever imaging manipulation Jazz had figured out. They were glancing at each other in hesitation and trepidation, the result of accessing and reading their wonderful little file. It read as follows:

 

_To Bee and ‘Raj, the Presumptuous Slaggers:_

_It has been brought to my attention that my two best operatives have been identified to have been knowingly and willingly involved in the recent debacle concerning a edible, satirical representation of a member of the Autobot Senior Command Staff, an occasion henceforth referred to as the “Bleeding Armadillo Incident” or simply the “Incident.” While the Incident itself was personally enjoyed by this particular officer, the inducement of unintentional grievances that affected our SIC is unacceptable and will be addressed. Right now._

_Upon my own perusal of the implicating evidence, I must say that I am quite disappointed. I expect better efforts in subterfuge and avoidance from you two. Seriously? With all the sensitive stuff on that terminal, and the fact that it's_ MY _bondmate’s, you never thought to check for those specialized sensors that will_ literally _pick up anything? Disrupter or not? Primus, that's embarrassing. And Bee! What have I told you about loops? Through the system, not over it._

_So, what to do, I asked myself. Let me preface my solution with a little quote: “An ounce of pretension is worth a pound of manure.” I do have to thank you both for some of the inspiration. Pigeons._

_If you look up, you will note that those are not just leaves up there. You will not believe what it took to get them there. Now, it is entirely possible to maneuver your merry way through the woods without waking them. Did it myself. But, where’s the fun in that?_

_I have placed sensor trips at varying intervals and of differing ranges between you and your objective. Each sensor is set to detect every possible thing they can be used for, like those you completely forgot about, and each sensor requires a different method or code to deactivate it. If you are detected, either by the sensor or while trying to shut it down, well…let’s just say that sudden blaring sirens and a zillion startled birds do not mix well._

_In addition to the actual device I need brought to me, there are two personal-sized prototypes. Complete the objective and you get protection to stroll out without a worry. The sectioning field you are currently in has been set to not allow anything – mech or bird – out until it is shut down or one is wearing the personal device. So, spook the birds once and you’ll be at point 0,0,0,0 of the sickest, organic slag-fest in Cybertronian history. :)_

_Happy Hunting!_

_Jazz of Polyhex_

_Third in Command of the Autobot Armed Forces_  
_Director of Special Operations and Intelligence  
_ _Currently Laughing His Aft Off at Your Stupidity_

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Three groons and four breems later, as well as lots of tension, cursing, near misses, misdirection, and two spark-plummeting, air horn sirens, Mirage and Bumblebee – only mildly splotched by the offending substance again – finally emerged into a small, narrow, asymmetrical clearing three-quarters of the way across the enclosed area from their starting point. Located in the center of the clearing on an innocuous metal crate were three circular devices, one the size of an average mech’s servo and two a little smaller than a palm size.

“Suppose it's rigged?” Bumblebee whispered, regarding the taller and more experienced mech as he gave the set up and their surroundings a shrewd assessment. He cringed at the hysterical edge his voice had taken on in the best groon.

“With Jazz, most likely,” Mirage sighed with resignation.

Each of them rounded the crate holding up the three innocent appearing prototypes, looking for any tells as well as ways to deactivate anything nefarious. Finding nothing, they conferred with each other on what to do. Apparently, they came to and acted on the same conclusion: either it was nothing and Jazz intentionally applied this to put them on edge, or they would spring whatever new hell their commander had concocted for them and pray to Primus for the best. Regardless, they could only proceed.

Together, they each reached for the personal devices and cautiously lifted them from their impromptu pedestal. Nothing happened. Some tension relieved and confidence bolstered at that, they each flicked on the devices and magnetized them. Just as Jazz had planned.

At the initialization of the devices, a random string of embedded code from the file Jazz had provided activated, hijacked their internal comm. devices, and transmitted to an undisclosed recipient before “self-destructing” and disappearing without a trace in a nanoklik.

Frozen in shock and uncertainty, Bumblebee and Mirage both startled at the sudden sound of ominous hissing. Frantically scanning their surroundings, they identified the source as thousands upon thousands of lit fuses dispersed in every visible tree and beyond. It was like in those hilariously entertaining cartoons with the coyote with the absurdly complex contraptions, often involving rockets, before every ill-fated and outrageous stunt to catch that elusive and honestly quite scrappy road runner, times a thousand.

Staring at each other with wide optics, they had only one thought.

Run.

Snagging the larger prototype, forgoing turning it off due to the need to input a code for the larger devices, the two mechs raced through the woods back toward the clearing just as the hissing stopped and everything around them was consumed in blinding flashes and processor achingly loud cracks and whirrs. Firecrackers. Their Pit-spawn of a commander had somehow managed to come up with and rig hundreds of thousands of firecrackers to simultaneously detonate, in a way that wouldn't cause permanent damage, in one night!

The forest was flooded with flashing light, loud cracks, and the shrill squawks of an incomprehensible number of angry and startled birds as they swarmed under, in, and above the trees in the limited space due to the still present containment force field. The cacophony was palpable.

And, what happens to cars underneath a swarm of birds? 

It was at that moment that both horrified mechs realized that the personal prototypes were not working. At all. The fleeing mechs found themselves increasingly coated in the grime of the woods, the few feathers from colliding with the disoriented and infuriated flying terrors, and, of course, enough bird poop to make it look like they had been crushed by a tidal wave of the foul stuff.

Finally, after what felt like groons, the unrecognizable, incensed, and disgusted mechs broke through the tree line to the – no pun intended – slag-eating, guffawing expression of Jazz who was conveniently positioned next to the dirt road leading away from the clearing. Both mechs were so thoroughly coated in the nauseating excrement that very few swatches of their plating were actually uncovered.

“ _JAZZ_!”

Both mechs furiously shouted, giving chase to the infuriatingly laughing saboteur. Mirage even fired one of his less-lethal weapons, though he regretted it instantly. It had filled and backed up from the massive amount of bird droppings, causing said droppings to burst out into the dignified and cultured, former noble’s spluttering face.

Jazz cackled as he dropped down into his alt mode, peeling out and spraying some dirt and rocks as he took off toward the _Ark_ under the rose and gold streaked sky, edging with bluish-purple in the east, of sunset. He easily out maneuvered and out raced the pursuing, dung covered mechs.

:: Mission accomplished, Prowler. One payload of a ton of manure! :: Jazz purred over the comm. as he swung onto asphalt and raced along the winding road. :: I'd say Part B was a raving success. You get the images? ::

:: I did, thank you. It was quite excellent. :: Prowl replied.

:: And you know what makes it even better? ::

:: While there are a number of equally accurate responses to that question, I’m sure you will enlighten me as to which you are referring. ::

:: Can't you just say “What?” ::

Silence, followed by an audible sigh.

:: What? :: Prowl asked, though his grudgingness was more for show.

:: They both have the long route patrol tomorrow morning. So, in order to be on time and to get any recharge at all once we get back, they’ll have to skip a wash. ::

It was true, and a possible extension he had anticipated. Whether it would come to fruition had depended on a couple of factors, such as neither of them noticing the birds before entering, their systems not immediately purging that bit of code before it would work, the prototype devices working – and not working – as planned, et cetera. Thankfully, as was inexplicably common, luck was on his side today.

A wash of love and amusement flowed across the bond, making Jazz smile as he put on an extra burst of speed as he flew out of a turn into a straightaway.

:: You are a force to be reckoned with, my Jazz. :: Prowl commented, then added quietly, :: Thank you. ::

:: No problem, Love. Hey, by the way, I got a message this morning. Turns out collateral damage from the desecration of my fine self during The Incident is up for grabs, and I so have first dibs on the helm! ::

:: Jazz, I swear, if you bring that home I will be drafting a Part C to this streak, you will find yourself and that atrocity locked out of our quarters until it is gone, and I will personally schedule you on double-shifts of monitor duty from now throughout all eternity. As. A. Start. ::

Jazz would not bring the helm home, but he would bring back some other…questionable pieces of his edible doppelgänger to Prowl’s mortification – though, they did have some fun uses in private. He would, however, be commissioning his own variation with Prowl as the (dis)honored subject in a few vorns for his mate’s creation date. 

And, as predicted, Mirage and Bumblebee would be setting out for their patrol the following morning, irritable, itchy, and still coated in the manure worth of their pranking pretension.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments/kudos, and thank you all for reading my first fanfic! 
> 
> While this continuation was inspired by the scene in Steel Magnolias involving Drum, a bow and arrow, the birds, and fireworks, it is also influenced by my own personal experience with pigeons. When I was visiting Paris a few years ago, a few of my friends/travelling group and I were sitting around the Statue of Charlemagne in front of Notre Dame. Long story short, I got pelted on the side of the face and shoulder!
> 
> Again, thank you for reading!


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